


Wool

by Sulla



Series: Wool [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, wool kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla





	Wool

Christ, thought John, it had been a long day. Granted, it had not been as long as most days when on duty in Afghanistan, and not even quite as long as accompanying Sherlock one of his more convoluted cases. But for a day at the surgery, it had been very long indeed. Convincing elderly hypochondriacs that they were not in fact suffering whatever was currently in the newspaper headlines was a job he didn't enjoy, but someone had to do it.

Arriving home to 221B Baker Street, John yawned in a jaw-cracking manner and had the time to realize that Sherlock didn't seem to be in before the uncontrollable urge to go directly to bed, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, fell upon him. Casting his eyes around the flat, he noticed that there was little to indicate where the other man had gone. Heaving a mental sigh he slowly padded up the stairs to the second floor, only to discover that the door to his room was cracked open.

He could have sworn he'd left it tightly shut this morning - it wasn't much of a barrier to a determined flatmate, especially not _his_ flatmate, but it was a habit he stood by, hoping to impress upon the man that this was _John_ 's space, not Sherlock's.

Before he could take another step, however, John heard a low moan. Thinking the worst, John near-silently rushed forward and brushed the door open, expecting to see the aftermath of a struggle and a wounded consulting detective on the floor.

But, no.

No, there hadn't been much of a struggle, and Sherlock wasn't wounded.

The tableaux that presented itself to him was thus: John's single bed piled high with John's own Jumpers. ALL of them. From the head of the bed to the toe of the spread was covered in woolly goodness. And on top of it was laid a blissfully unaware Sherlock Holmes. Okay, _laid_ wasn't the right word. _Writhing_ , or perhaps _swimming_ on top of the jumpers was probably the right way to put it. He seemed not to have noticed John entering yet (which in itself was patently unbelievable in view of Sherlock's usual observational capabilities), and he was nuzzling face-down into the armpit of John's favorite black and white striped jumper. The one John had been just wearing yesterday, in fact.

John flashed a glance around the room. It seemed that most of the jumpers had come out of his dirty-clothes hamper, but several had also been retrieved from his dresser drawer. Either way, the whole mess undoubtedly smelled like John himself, and Sherlock really seemed to be reveling in that. And as John watched, he began to notice a new sort of movement on the bed. Could it be? Really? Seriously? Was it possible that Sherlock - _Sherlock_ \- was humping a bed covered in jumpers - _jumpers_ \- in John's own room?

John was tired. He did not have the energy to deal with this right now. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes with his fists, and turned back around, unnoticed by the fully-immersed consulting detective. He went to the couch downstairs after grabbing a blanket from the linen closet, and curled up. He was asleep in moments.

***

Wandering through Marks and Spencer's the following afternoon, John was deep in thought. What had caused the previous night's bizarre behavior? He couldn't be sure. When he had gone back to his room early this morning, all of his jumpers had been put back in their respective places and there was no sign whatsoever as to what had taken place there earlier. All he could hope for was that there would be no sticky surprises for him on laundry day.

Sherlock had denied any interest in John when they had first met, and John had taken that at face value. Could things have changed? If so, why didn't Sherlock say something to him, or even just flirt with him, for god's sake? Why... _this_? He had been able to think of nothing else today at work, so he had excused himself early, with the intention of conducting an experiment of his own. He moved through the men's jumper section in M &S and found a suitable choice. Bright scarlett with blades of orange, yellow and green woven through. Just the sort of thing Sherlock would profess to hate on sight, if John knew him at all. It was garish, it was ugly, and horror of horrors, it wasn't cashmere. John took it to the cashier and the young man rung up his purchase with a single raised eyebrow of suppressed mirth.

To make sure the terms of the experiment were consistent, John went to the closest loo and changed into the new jumper, hoping to imbue the fibres with his own scent as much as possible in the short time that he had. He jogged around the block several times, and then stopped back in M&S for tea and cake, and then finally changed back out of the jumper. Marching back to Baker Street, John really and truly didn't know what to expect, but he found himself pleasantly thrilled with the open-endedness of the situation.

Entering the flat, John quickly looked around, immediately locating Sherlock sitting at the table with his laptop open. He didn't look up, or even make a sound. It was like John didn't exist. Of course this was typical Sherlock behavior, so he didn't let it bother him.

"So..." John started, putting down his shopping bags by the door.

"Mm?" Sherlock grunted, thoroughly engaged with the computer.

"I decided to come home early today."

"...so you did."

"Yes."

"Mm."

Okay, this was getting nowhere. Sighing aloud, John picked up the green bag. "I brought you something."

He unwrapped the jumper again, and slowly shaking it out to take its natural shape, he held it up for Sherlock to see. At first the other man didn't even look away from the computer screen, but something seemed to grab his attention from the corner of his eye, and he turned to stare fully at John and the jumper held out between them.

Silence reigned. Finally Sherlock was the one to break it.

"How perfectly horrid. And to think, John, I never imagined that your taste would _devolve_ through living with me..."

John grinned evilly in return. "Oh but Sherlock, this is for _you_!"

Sherlock's face was blank for a moment, but then suddenly he jerked minutely in his seat and his face reddened.

"You... you..."

"Yes, Sherlock, since you like mine so much, I thought you might want one of your own."

Closing the lid of the laptop, Sherlock stood up, coming over to take the jumper in hand and stroke it slightly. His hand opened and closed on one sleeve somewhat spasmatically, as if he couldn't quite belief that this was happening.

"You know, don't you."

"Yes," replied John, with an easy, open smile, being careful not to push his flatmate away.

For a few more moments there was silence. Sherlock held the garment up to his nose and inhaled deeply, smiling blissfully when he appeared to find the scent he was looking for. Dropping the jumper again, he turned dark, penetrating eyes to meet with John's.

"Put it on," growled Sherlock.

"As I said, it's for you, but sure, if you like," replied John with a small smile.

Sherlock watched, seemingly riveted, as John stripped off his favorite beige jumper and replaced it with the new item. His lip quirked up at one side. "And that, John, is what I believe the Americans would call a Heathcliff Huxtable."

John gaped for a moment as something occurred to him. "You... you mean to tell me that you deleted the knowledge that the earth goes around the sun, and yet retained knowledge of bad '80's American sitcoms?"

"Once never knows what might come in handy one day," replied Sherlock with a quick grin. John rolled his eyes and began to retort, but was kept silent by the avaricious leer on his flatmate's face - a look he had never seen before directed at himself, or indeed at anyone else except possibly that extremely complex case that involved cannibalism.

Sherlock stepped forward, directly into John's personal space. John found he didn't mind one bit. He ran his hands up and down John's arms and leaned in and sniffed audibly at John's neck and at the juncture where the body of the jumper turned into the arm.

"Hug me."

"Pardon...?"

Sherlock picked up John's arms and attempted to wrap them around himself. John took the hint and hugged his friend fiercely, and he was surprised to feel the taller man almost crumple into his arms. He steadied his stance to compensate for the extra weight, and stroked Sherlock's back.

After a few moments, Sherlock stood up fully, but continued to hold John close.

"Would you..."

John was clueless as to what Sherlock was getting at. "Yes?"

"Can I..."

"Yes?"

"Do...this?"

Sherlock took John's face in both of his hands and tilted his head back so that their lips could meet. The touch of the detective's lips to his own was like a bolt of lightning running directly to John's cock, and where he might have been suspicious as to his sexual orientation most of his life, this made one thing absolutely clear. He might or might not be into men -- but he sure as hell was into _Sherlocks_. Their lips only met lightly, closed for a few moments before Sherlock began to nervously tease John's mouth open with the very tip of his tongue.

John thought his knees might buckle out from under him. The only thing holding him up was the grip Sherlock had on his arm and shoulder. Those hands rubbed and stroked, seemingly enjoying every sensation of the wool under calloused hands.

Suddenly Sherlock pulled away, the loss of support almost dropping John to the floor, but the detective's single hand maintained his John's balance. "Here. Now. Upstairs."

Sherlock bolted for the stairs, dragging John behind him. John couldn't help but stare at the flexing buttocks ahead of him as they climbed the stair to John's own bedroom. The sight was simply delicious, and John's erection, which had begun to flag when he had been jolted out of their kiss, was burgeoning towards full hardness again.

Sherlock dropped his hand when they arrived at John's bedroom, and the doctor watched with amusement as his flatmate visited the clothes hamper and the chest of drawers, pulling multiple jumpers from their places and tossing them to land on the bed. Finally when the bed was piled high with the wool he seemed to enjoy so much, sherlock turned to John and wordlessly pushed him back against the bed, causing him to fall over into the surfeit of softness. Sherlock followed him onto the bed, hovering over him on his hands and knees, straddling the length of his body. Their eyes had locked, and John was aware of nothing but that piercing blue gaze holding his.

It wasn't long before John begain to fidget. "Um, why..."

His words broke the spell of Sherlock's stillness and suddenly John was absolutely enveloped in sniffing, tugging, pulling, rubbing, thrusting consulting detective. Sherlock rubbed himself cat-like up the entire length of John's sternum, pausing on the way to inhale deeply at John's neck and to fist one hand in the new jumper, and the other on the buckle of his belt.

"May I..." the request sounded like it came from deep in the detective's chest.

"Yessss..." groaned John, thrusting his hips up towards the hand so tauntingly near his cock, wanting nothing more than to gain some friction where it was most needed.

Sherlock wasted no time, working the belt free and undoing the button and zip on John's trousers, while John contented himself with running his hands up and down Sherlock's tightly-fitting purple shirt, enjoying the hunt for the pebbled nipples below the fine fabric and even more so for the resultant hitch in Sherlock's breath when he was successful.

Sherlock pulled away for a moment to remove his shirt, carefully undoing each button, straddling John just below his hips. He smirked evily as John groaned at the touch that was so near, and yet to far. John tried then to sit up and pull off his own jumper, but quick as a cat Sherlock shoved him back against the wool-strewn bed.

"No. That stays on."

John held his eyes for a moment and finally nodded. "If you like..."

"I do like."

"Well then," John rasped, "get me out of my pants or I'm going to die here, Sherlock."

Sherlock twitched as if he had been poked. "Yes! Right."

John's trousers and pants were pulled off without ceremony, and John reveled in the fresh air caressing his heated flesh. His cock was throbbing like it had hardly ever before, and all he wanted was to bury himself inside Sherlock, and it didn't matter where. At this point he would be happy to fuck the man's armpit. But Sherlock was in charge here, that was patently obvious, so he, the ever-patient, long-suffering John, waited to see what would happen next.

He was not to be disappointed. Sherlock swiftly divested himself of his own trousers and pants, and suddenly they were cock-to-cock, the hardness between them slicked in their own pre-come. They frotted against each other for a few moments before John pointed towards the nightstand.

Sherlock nodded and reached inside the drawer to pull out the half-empty tube of lubricant he found there. John couldn't help but blush at the sight of it, and at the forced memory of all his lonely nights with his hand, jerking himself to unsatisfying orgasms to the vague female mental images he pulled up. But Sherlock recaptured his attention with a slick hand coating the two of them together with the cool, slippery gel.

Sherlock had rucked John's jumper up almost to his armpits, but it still came as a complete surprise when the detective lifted up the hem of the garment high enough to bend down and insert his head under it, laying his cheek on John's chest, and pulling the jumper down so that it covered him almost to his shoulders. From John's point of view his chest had developed a large, brightly coloured growth beyond which he could see nothing of his own body, let alone any of Sherlock's. The detective was making low, contented grunts as he rubbed his cheek into John's sparse chest hair, and flicked out his tongue to lick at the nipple in front of him. John gasped aloud.

"Sherlock, what..."

"Quiet, I'm concentrating," growled the voice beneath the jumper. And so it did seem he was indeed concentrating. He maneuvered John so that his legs came together, and inserted his own slick cock between them, humming with pleasure as he begain to thrust gently. His hands then focused, thankfully, on John's neglected cock, stroking him vigorously, playing with John's foreskin, dipping the tip of his thumb into the slit and circling the head with every few strokes. John placed his hand on Sherlock's head, not knowing what else to do, and stroked the long length of his back with his other hand.

John had to admit to himself that he was thankful that they were alone, because he realized that they must look absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock was snuffling and grunting under John's jumper, his hot, wet breath dampening John's skin, and he was rutting frantically between John's thighs. Suddenly, however, before John managed to become any more self-conscious, Sherlock stiffened and with a small cry he spilled his semen into the crevice of John's legs. John himself was so near orgasm by that point that it took only a few more strokes of the detective's dexterous hands to find himself following Sherlock into the most satisfying orgasm he'd had in quite some time.

Slowly, as their breathing and heart-rates returned to normal, Sherlock brought himself back out from under the jumper, face red and sweaty, hair a tangled mess. He tried in vain to straighten it for several moments before John gave in and finally said what he had been wanting to say from the moment he had seen his friend molesting his jumpers.

"Well, Sherlock, I don't think I've ever heard of someone with a wool-fetish before, but as long as sheep remain out of the equation, I think you'll do just fine."

"Dull."

"...what?"

"Nothing. Look. Don't put your clothes on. Go wash yourself up, and I'll meet you back here in five minutes."

"...what?"

"You don't think I'm done with you yet, do you? Good god. GO!"

John went.


End file.
